Redemption
by Crush All Illusions
Summary: Linton Heathcliff dies before he can marry Catherine Linton. Heathcliff needs a new plan. A 'What If' Wuthering Heights lemon. First inspired by the Lemon fic "the cause of your grief" by violentdarlings, found on "archiveofourown". Individual chapters will be rated accordingly, as required.
1. Chapter 1

The boy was ailing.

Young Linton Heathcliff lay insensible in his bed, sweat soaking his pale face. Catherine Linton sat in vigil over him: she had not moved from her chair throughout the whole day, though he showed no acknowledgment of her presence, nor even gave a sign that he was aware of it.

Heathcliff rarely so much as entered the room. He sat, instead, in his dead lover's room, his dark face lined with thought.

He had not meant for the boy to die this early. If Linton died before he woke, Heathcliff would gain nothing, and that wretched sop Edgar could pass his estate on to his Catherine, and where would Heathcliff's long-planned revenge be then?

_No,_ he thought, _something must be done._

* * *

Hareton was a strong lad, and nimble, and Heathcliff's instructions had been to act with all speed. So, with no end of threats ringing in his ears, and no doubt in his mind that they would be enacted if Dr. Kenneth were not back at the Heights in time, the young man had slipped easily onto the finest horse in the stable, caring nothing for bridle nor saddle, and galloped forth, bareback, towards the setting sun.

* * *

Catherine's fingers relaxed on the book Hareton had given her as a welcome means of distraction; her eyelids drooped; her body slumped into her chair; her vision blurred. How long had she been awake? She could not tell: the sun might have given her some indication, but whilst he had been conscious, Linton had complained bitterly that the light hurt his eyes, until she had drawn the heavy curtains and blocked out everything there was of the outside world.

The sun, the moon, the rolling moors, all were obscured in the name of Linton's meagre comfort. She had only a candle for light, and had not so much as thought to draw the curtains again, even when Linton at last settled to a fevered sleep. Summoning all the strength she had left, raising arms that ached from her still, silent vigil, she stretched her fingers toward his face.

His skin was cold.

* * *

Heathcliff was enraged; but the doctor, when he had arrived, had needed barely a glance to confirm the plain truth of the matter, and there was no rage in all the world that would overcome it. Linton was dead.

And now he sat in the dark, leaving the others to mourn Linton's passing. He had the boy's will, had already ensured, whilst Linton lay upon his deathbed, that his son would leave his estate entire to his vengeful father… But the boy owned nothing.

So much work, so much planning, so many threats, so much careful manipulation: all wasted.

The candle had burned itself out long ago: Heathcliff knew this room as well as he knew his own body. Even the moonlight that spilled weakly through the window was unnecessary. Heathcliff had paced this room time and time again, learning its arrangement by heart as though by doing so, he might reunite himself with a part of his Cathy. It was a futile exercise, he knew; no matter how many times he lay in her bed, or ran his fingers across the picture-frame that hung above the fireplace, or read through her diary, tracing the words 'Cathy' and 'Heathcliff' with his finger over and over again…

His head slumped, exhausted, across the writing-desk, the scuffed and pitted surface betraying the movements, long ago, of Cathy's hand as she wrote his name next to hers. (She had written other things besides, it was true; but what did such trivialities matter to him?)

He thought himself asleep: perhaps he was. But it was the tapping that roused him from his aching slumber, the violent beating upon the window-pane that sounded quite different from the gentle patter of the rain.

He knew that sound.

* * *

Catherine Linton, newly bereaved of the only friend she had ever known, lies grieving in the bed that he had died in…

"Cathy!"

Catherine Linton cannot sleep, her eyes are too dry; she has wept the last of her tears…

"_Cathy!_"

Catherine Linton, the girl without a friend, ruminates on the nature of grief…

"CATHY!"

* * *

Catherine burst into the room next door, heedless of Heathcliff's strict insistence upon privacy. The candle she had brought with her showed little in the gloom beyond, but a flash of lightning gave her the scene, all in one brief, startling moment of blinding clarity that left the image burning on the inside of her eyes as the darkness fell once more.

Heathcliff, kneeling in desperate supplication on the bare stone floor, his arms stretched forth through the open window, a name on his lips borne aloft by a scream.

**_"CATHY!"_**

It was enough to deafen her: his voice was ragged with screaming and crying and pleading all at once, and still he raged his one-word defiance at the night sky.

She could not think, her mind was blank, and she knew not what she could do…

A push at her side, and Hareton shoved his way past her towards the man he loved as a father. His eyes were alert, not a trace of slumber in them, as though he had not even gone to bed. She wondered idly, for a moment, whether Hareton even slept, or whether perhaps he did so with his eyes open, so as to be ready for the next day's labours.

And now he was at Heathcliff's side, his hand on the broken man's shoulder, and muttering words that Catherine herself could not make out above the rain and the thunder and the sobbing.

For Heathcliff truly was weeping now, his moans carrying somehow above the roar of the storm, so that she could discern his tortured words.

"Cathy, no! No, my love, don't leave me! Stay, stay! Oh, my love, no, please! Return here, only come back, and torment me but a little while more – _don't you abandon me in this hell!_"

After that, he made no sound that would translate into words, but only wept and sobbed and gasped, as Hareton, with what little assistance Catherine could give, helped Heathcliff into the bed.

"It takes him like this, sometimes," Hareton told her in a confidential whisper, "especially when there's a rainstorm upon the moors. I don't know what it is that ails him, but you need not worry – he shall be back to his old self by t'morn, no doubt; he always is."

And, indeed, Heathcliff was already quiet as they closed the window, though he seemed to lie in an unnatural torpor, his face so pale as to be almost white, and his lips moved ever on, even as his eyes began to close.

Catherine was no great lip-reader, and the darkness in the room hindered her efforts, but she could pick out just a few choice words as he mouthed them silently to the empty air before him.

"_No… Don't close the window… Cathy, my love… Drive me mad…_"

Hareton beckoned her forth, and they closed the door, and left him in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

The dawn brought a rare calm to the moors, the clouds retreating and yielding to the bright, merciless sun. The moors gleamed in the light: yellow and purple and green and gold, all clearly evident from any window in the Heights.

To Hareton Earnshaw, it brought a welcome light as he went about his tasks, Hareton having been up since well before that dawn, as he always was, to set to his chores. It brought a smile to his face, as well, for with the clear day came an assurance that Heathcliff might be spared the torments of the previous night.

To Catherine Linton, it brought a wakening from uneasy dreams that she could not recall, but which left an awful feeling in the back of her mind which spoke of loss, and reminded her all through the poor fare that served as breakfast that her only friend was gone.

To Joseph, it brought another day of prayer and hard work, and the Lord well knew he expected little more than that.

* * *

To the whole household, it brought Heathcliff, a manic gleam in his eyes, dry and sunken though they were from a night of broken sleep and silent screams, of turning over and over in the bed, and of staring, unseeing and insensible, even as his body must surely have slept.

A genteel smile was fixed upon his face, which Catherine, upon seeing him enter the kitchen, took for a sign of kindliness.

"How are you this morning, sir?" enquired she, as politely and pleasantly as she could manage; while beside her, Hareton, who knew Heathcliff's expressions far better than did she, turned his face quickly away. "Is the morning not fair?"

Heathcliff took his seat at table, his lips not moving a fraction of an inch, and ladled his porridge into a bowl without looking at it, his gaze fixed upon Catherine's face. Catherine began to feel somewhat uncomfortable, and lowered her eyes to her own bowl. Still his eyes bored into her, even as she ate, and an uncomfortable silence descended: for neither she nor Hareton dared speak before Heathcliff answered Catherine, and Heathcliff seemed quite content to leave her delicate enquiries hanging in the air between them.

He did not eat, himself, but sat as still as though rigor mortis had overcome him, with only the rare blink of his eyes to confirm his continued life, watching the pair of them as they finished their meal. Finally Cathy could take the awkward silence no more, and entreated Heathcliff again. "Will you not eat, sir? I fear yours will become cold."

Heathcliff looked down, apparently rather surprised to find his breakfast before him, and seemed as though he were about to begin; but then he looked up again, and settled once more into his unsettling trance, his eyes once more upon her face.

At last, when it seemed to Catherine that perhaps Heathcliff might never speak again, he rose, beamed at both of them, and said, brightly, "A fine day, indeed! Now, 'tis time I got that funeral planned."

And as Catherine blinked away the tears that came unbidden to her eyes for the loss of her friend, Heathcliff swept from the room, leaving his food uneaten on the table.

* * *

It was inappropriate, in young Catherine's eyes, that such fine weather should present itself for a funeral. It was as though the sun mocked her continually, and her poor father complained that the light got in his eyes painfully.

Indeed, she worried for her father, who looked more drawn and pale than he had when she had left for Wuthering Heights. It seemed his health had declined quite dismally in the few days she had been away, for Nellie stayed ever at his side, looking protective and alert, and insisted he take his various medicines at strictly appointed times. It was an effort, in fact, for Edgar Linton to attend the church for his nephew's funeral, and Catherine had the distressing feeling that he had come only for her sake – and, perhaps, that he should not have, for his own. She resolved, then and there, to return to her father's house directly the funeral was over, and nurse him back to some degree of health.

Heathcliff, Hareton, Joseph, and a hired mourner from the funeral service made up the mourners, and in truth, Linton's body was so light that the expense of another mourner was almost unnecessary. The whole thing had been arranged with almost troubling rapidity: scarce two days had passed since she watched him breathe his last. Though she would never say it out loud, she was almost sad to see the body removed so quickly, as though she had not had time to say her goodbyes, or to become accustomed to the sudden loss of the one friend she had known in her life.

True, Hareton was tolerable company enough; but so coarse and unlettered that there was precious little of which they could speak: she would mention some marvellous book, and he would know nothing of it; he would show her the birds in the yard, and she could not tell one from another. Neither of them had the patience to continue such exchanges long before the one's ignorance would grate across the nerves of the other, and more harsh and critical words would lie unsaid between them than Catherine would ever allow to pass her lips.

The clergyman was speaking, monotonous words that would have fitted any soul: "We recommend this soul to God Almightly… May his sins be forgiven… Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…" Catherine found her eyes prickling with tears, though the priest's words meant nothing to her.

Heathcliff's face was blank, and not a little pale: Catherine had scarcely seen him eat since the night he had screamed his throat hoarse at the window, and on the rare occasions that he had, he had picked at his meals and left them half-eaten, before retiring abruptly, sometimes even when either she or Hareton were partway through addressing him. He stared at the priest as though he could see past the dull exterior of the man, to every sin held within.

Joseph's head was bowed, his lips moving along with every passage from the Bible that had been included in the speech, no matter how obscure; and she fancied that every time the priest so much as stopped for breath, she could hear a quickly whispered prayer from the old servant's lips, as though the prayers of the priest himself were insufficient, and only Joseph himself could summon the requisite piety to truly recommend a boy to the Almighty. _Poor soul,_ she thought, _who will pray for him when he is gone? Doubtless there is none that could pray well enough for his satisfaction._

Hareton reached for her hand when she wept by the graveside, but she pulled away from his grasp: she was not ready to be touched, not now, not by anyone; and she hoped Hareton would understand her actions did not stem from unkindness. Although from the look in his eyes when she glanced up at him, it would not hurt to explain when next they spoke.

Her father stood some distance from Heathcliff, and upon the opposite side of the grave, as though Heathcliff bore some disease that he wished to avoid. Still, it seemed he could not avoid the man forever, for Heathcliff bore down upon him as they began to depart, and ailing as he was, Edgar could hardly avoid him.

Even some distance behind the two of them, she could hear every word.

"Edgar! Why, 'tis rare to see you out of the house," cried Heathcliff in an uncommonly jovial tone. "Mayhap you have come just for the delight of seeing my face?"

She did not hear her father's reply: his voice was too quiet; but she heard Heathcliff once more: speaking far more loudly than was necessary, she felt, especially given her father's frail state.

"Well, now, there's no need for such harsh words from a gentleman like you! Just think, I should not like to be spoken to in such a manner by my own brother-in-law: 'twould be impolite! Worse yet to hear such things from the man who would yet be my father-in-law, and I'm sure you shall grant your blessing to me. Oh, that reminds me: I meant to ask you if you'd mind: may I take your daughter's hand in marriage?"

Catherine did not know who was more shocked, her father or herself. She finally concluded it must be her father, for he seemed to be having some sort of apoplectic fit. Indeed, it seemed he could no longer walk for his visceral response; though Heathcliff paid no attention, if indeed he noticed at all, for he strolled on as though Edgar remained by his side, whilst Nellie did all she could to hold on to her charge. It was hard to tell whether she was trying to prevent him from falling, or from throwing himself at the man in a violent rage, but at last Catherine, as she rushed forward to aid Nellie in her attempts, could hear her father speak.

"You devil of a man! You are a poison, sir, a disease upon this place; and you shall not speak again of such a thing! My Cathy shall never be yours, as you should well have guessed. And furthermore, sir, I hope with all earnest hope that you shall never set your – your _damned_ eyes upon her again!"

He broke into a storm of coughing at this point, which rather silenced his attempt at invective; but he had Heathcliff's full attention now, and the monster wheeled round and bore down on him again, far more threateningly than his first approach, and whispered something in his ear, which neither she, nor presumably Nellie to judge from the puzzled look on the maid's face, could make out.

Edgar went pale, or at least paler than he already was, and his jaw dropped for a moment before he drew himself up, with as upright a bearing as he could manage with both his daughter and maid to support him.

"I…" Her father's voice was quite as incensed as she had ever heard him, and yet his courage seemed to have failed him. Catherine watched her father quail before this beast of a man, who had straightened up in his turn, and admittedly looked rather more imposing than did Edgar. "I cannot believe you would say such a thing," he continued, rather lamely, and then seemed lost for words.

"Oh, you know me, Edgar," replied Heathcliff airily, "I am quite the man of my word. And rest assured the promise holds true for her, as well," he added, gesturing rather disconcertingly toward her, and Cathy's eyes widened in fear. She was not sure which would be worse: her current confusion as to the nature of the threat Mr. Heathcliff was obviously making, or the knowledge of what it actually was.

"Well," Heathcliff continued as he strolled away, "I shall have the banns prepared, then. I am sure you shall be there to give her away: your health shall recover long enough for _that_, at least."

He turned away, towards the Heights. "Take good care of him, Nellie," he sneered as he went. "I know you can."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: For the purposes of this story, I have raised Cathy's age from seventeen (as she was in the original book) to eighteen.**

The three of them made a doleful picture as they journeyed back towards Thrushcross Grange.

Edgar seemed short of breath, and Catherine was worried her father's health would deteriorate further simply from the conversation Heathcliff had forced upon him.

For herself, Catherine alternated dizzyingly between fury at Heathcliff for so presuming to press a marriage suit without giving her the chance of even voicing a refusal, and grief for Linton, who even now lay in his hastily dug grave, with the soil freshly heaped upon his lifeless body.

Nellie's brow was furrowed in thought, though Catherine could not guess for a moment what the woman might be thinking of.

* * *

Edgar retired to bed directly they arrived home, promising to join her for dinner: Catherine fussed and fretted over him, but her father insisted he had no need of assistance, and enjoined her to amuse herself until then.

So Catherine read alone in the library, and wished there were someone she could talk to.

At last, she could bear her solitude no longer, and sought out Nellie in the kitchens. Her book lay forgotten upon the couch: she could stand no more to read jealously of so many people in books, all of whom had friends and companions they could turn to.

Nellie, it turned out, was sitting in the parlour, and drinking tea with the same far-off look in her eyes that Catherine had spied in the carriage ride back.

"How has my father been?" blurted Catherine, when Nellie offered no sign of having noticed her entrance, and Nellie jumped in surprise at her appearance; almost, though not quite, spilling tea from the cup.

"Why, girl, you gave me quite a start!" she snapped reprovingly. "Can you not approach with some thoughtfulness when you haven't been noticed?"

Cathy bowed her head, abashed. "Sorry, Nellie," she said. "I'm just worried for him. 'Tis not healthy to take to bed at two o' clock, and not to rise until supper: I fear he is worse than he appears."

Nellie smiled fondly, and placed her cup on the table, the better to address her. "He'll be fine, girl, don't you worry your head about that. He's been tired, lately: that's all. No doubt he shall be right as rain once he gets over himself. And you shall help him with that, now, shan't you, with a cheery smile and a good bedside manner? Here," she continued, getting up to bustle about with the tea set, "I shall make him a pot of tea, and you can bring it to him: that'll bring a smile to his face, no doubt."

Catherine had little time to respond: Nellie would listen to nothing she said when she tried to start any conversation, and before she could insist upon talking, Nellie had pressed the tray upon her and hurried her away upstairs.

* * *

Edgar Linton lay in his bed, looking no less pale for his last hour's rest, and his face was lined with worry. But a smile came to his face, as Nellie had predicted, to see his daughter approach.

"How are you feeling, father?" asked Catherine, as gently as she could, as she set down the tray upon the bedside table like an offering to some sickly god.

"Cathy…" her father replied, apparently caring nothing for her query. "Cathy… What has that man asked of you?"

Catherine was perturbed, and she did not know whether to be more concerned at his words, or at the weakness of the voice which spoke them. "He has said nothing to me, father," she replied. "I knew nothing of his intentions before he spoke to you today."

Edgar's frown deepened. "And I know even less of them, for his having said it."

"Father?"

Edgar looked up, his face earnest and pleading. "You must understand me, Cathy. Heathcliff never does a thing without having his reasons, and I have never known them to be anything but wishes of hurt and harm. I cannot think why he should present his suit to us in this way, but I cannot believe he will mean you any more good than he has ever meant me. Be careful, my dear girl, when you are married to that man."

Catherine was indignant. "Father! I have not so much as given my reply yet! Come to that, he has not actually asked _me_."

Edgar sighed. "And he yet may not. Heathcliff takes what he desires, and the most strenuous exertions cannot unbend his will. I am powerless in this, Cathy; if Heathcliff intends to have your hand, he shall have it, and our manifold objections be damned, for he shall inflict worse sufferings upon us at any refusal, until we are forced to yield."

"Then shall we submit like meek children before him!?" Catherine retorted in vexed horror. "Surely such a thing is to be resisted at all costs, father! Can we not, combined, prevent him?"

"Cathy, my love, we might as well persuade the Devil to pray, as turn that vagrant from his course. If he does not reconsider of his own accord, he shall have us both in church and at the altar beside him, though I tremble to give you to the man who took my –"

He broke off, then, caught in a fit of sobs that turned to violent coughing, as though he might choke himself to death in his torment; and Catherine, much alarmed by this turn of events, resolved then and there not to further question her father's judgement, for fear of doing him some worse harm. Instead, she took the untouched tea tray from the room without a word more, leaving Edgar to his uneasy repose.

* * *

In his bare room, Hareton frowned, deep in thought. He knew where his loyalties lay, indeed, for Heathcliff was as near to a father as anything he had ever known, and nothing could shake the love of a son from its course. But he had the uneasy feeling that Heathcliff meant no good for Cathy, and he fancied some bond of friendship had grown between himself and the girl.

No great bond, it was true: she had snatched her hand from his, and his brow still furrowed itself in painful recollection of that. And yet he had stood by her today, and they had eaten together these last few days, and had helped Heathcliff together before that, and she had taken the book he had given her to the funeral, and kept it when she departed with her father: did not all of these things mean something to them both?

And now he would see her marry the man he loved beyond any other. Should he be happy? Or did his heart fill with concern for her, at the thought of what he knew his idol and mentor might visit upon the girl, were she to displease him?

* * *

Joseph read the book of Zechariah slowly, one finger following as his eye travelled across the page, caressing each holy word within the Bible as though it were some precious jewel. In truth, he had no need of such care, and with any other book but this, he would read fluently and briskly; but the Bible, he felt, was something special, and it did not do to rush such a thing.

And so, the boy was dead. What mattered that to him? They boy was in the hands of God, now, and would get what all sinners deserved, unless the Almighty forgave his wrongdoings, which must have been many and great (though in truth, Joseph could never have said what sin he might have witnessed, unless it was idleness and sloth when the boy lay dying).

But Heathcliff had expressed his unnatural intentions today, and that… Truly, that was what preyed upon the old man's mind now. Whatever that unnatural heathen's intentions, they could only be diabolically perverse; why else prey upon a girl who, however plain her faults and sins, might yet be saved from damnation, if she only she could be kept from the gypsy devil's influence?

There was only one course of action now: and Joseph resolved, with all his will, to do just that.

He prayed.

* * *

Heathcliff sat in his Cathy's old room, memories of their history together pressing down upon him.

If Edgar did not heed his threat, and yet refused him, there was no lawful way to force his hand; save by catching the girl's heart, and he could not be certain that he could achieve such a thing with the man's daughter, as he had long ago with the sister. At least, not before the fever took Edgar: and where was the pleasure in revenge when the object of hate was dead, and at peace, and unable to smart at the offence, or yet weep for the shame?

No, Edgar would give away his daughter, and his foppish, milky face would stain itself with tears at the thought of what might happen to her; and better still, Edgar would know, on his very deathbed, that his own daughter could not profit from his will without his benefitting Heathcliff.

After all, revenge was all the sweeter when it was well within the law.

No-one could stop him, this way.

Now, only one question remained. Which was crueller: to make her hate him… Or love him?


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Please be aware that views expressed by characters do not necessarily represent the views of the author. For more in-depth explanation, see my 'Profile' page.**

Edgar lay in his bed for the next few days. Cathy played nursemaid as best she could, and took him tea, and read to him, and served him what little food he could eat.

(Nellie insisted the gruel she made would be nourishing, but Cathy worried nonetheless at how little of it actually passed his lips.)

But it was not in her nature to be indoors; she could feel herself growing restless, for having now been outside, and explored the world just a little, she found herself itching for the wind in her face, the rain on her back, and the stones beneath her feet.

Nellie called her a 'wild girl', and while it was surely meant as an insult, Cathy could not imagine herself any other way, nor understand how anyone could wish to be so tame as to stay indoors night and day.

By the end of the fourth day, books lay strewn across the floor of Edgar's room where Cathy had left them, half-read; too bored with them to go on. What was a poet's description of nature, compared with the wild, harsh elegance that was the earth, and the wind, and the rain? What could a pianoforte's barren melody stir in her heart that would not be kindled, a thousand times more brightly, by the song of a single wild bird? What excitement was there to be found in some story of human intrigue or war, when eagles soared high, and lightning struck, and even mere ants fought vicious battles between themselves that left the bravest of her fellow men seeming lily-livered and meek by contrast?

And what threat was Heathcliff to her, or her father; as compared to the hawk's threat to the fieldmouse?

"Why is Father so afraid, Nellie?" she finally asked, as Nellie sat drinking tea with her at the kitchen table. "What threat is Heathcliff to us? I cannot see why I must marry him; no, I cannot! I am the woman here, and I will have my say: why does Father wish to deny me a voice in this?"

"Hush, now!" snapped Nellie. "Your father knows more of that man than do you, and he will listen to you in time, I have no doubt, provided you don't go upsetting him with your pestering. You shall have to keep your wits about you, though," she added sternly, "when you marry him. You may not fear the man, but you must be watchful, my girl: I should hate to see you come to harm."

And so touched was Cathy by Nellie's concern, that she ceased her protesting and went out of her way to help, as Nellie directed her about the making of the tea, the while giving her sage advice on calming Heathcliff's inevitable rages; which, Nellie added, were both frequent and violent. And so the afternoon passed peacefully, if uneasily, for them both.

…

The next visit of the Linton family to the church, where young Linton Heathcliff had been laid to rest, was an affair that weighed still more heavily upon the heart of Mr. Edgar Linton, for it was to attend his daughter's wedding, and the event struck at his very soul, the very thought of it enough to leave him gasping with rage, desperate to scream his denial in that gypsy's face and to turn the blackguard out onto the moors.

And yet what could he do? If Heathcliff were to make good on his threats – and past experience with the fiend showed there was indeed no end to his dedication to revenge and cruelty – then they were all damned, himself and his sweet Cathy included, and he could not truly believe himself a pious enough Christian man to overcome such dreadful influence. He should have prayed more. Perhaps he would take up the habit. Perhaps he would ask that foul-tempered old lunatic, that yet tended the house at Wuthering Heights, for guidance – he felt sure that Joseph would know his Bible better even than the bishop did, and Heathcliff's damnable presence somehow made Joseph seem suddenly a great deal more sane than any Sundays-only Christian like himself (or indeed, he sometimes suspected, the priest). Who could doubt the existence of devils, and of hell, when that man dwelt upon the earth?

Such were the dark thoughts that plagued Edgar's mind as he rode beside his daughter, looking radiant and yet strangely fragile in her best Sunday dress, blue as the forget-me-nots that bloomed within the gardens of Thrushcross Grange.

Nellie, meanwhile, sat opposite them, looking as neat as ever she did, a look of sympathy on her face as she fixed her gaze on the girl. Whatever Nellie had said to her, Edgar found himself glad of it, for his daughter had voiced no protest at his fulfilment of Heathcliff's wishes in over a week; though she did seem oddly quiet and unlike herself of late.

He only hoped she might realise he acted with her own interests at heart – and that she might never have to discover the threat he was saving her from…

…

Hareton Earnshaw, unknowing possessor of the house he worked so hard to preserve, had scrubbed his skin raw and chosen the very finest of his meagre clothing, in preparation for this day. Feelings blossomed in his head, doing battle with one another like a snake fighting a falcon.

His friend – his only friend, if he did not count Heathcliff, or the horses – was to join the household, to be wedded to the man he loved and respected above all others. Joy at the thought of having her constant company was at war with the raging jealousy he felt towards Heathcliff, which in turn dragged feelings of shame at begrudging anything to the man to whom he owed his very life, and who had made such a gesture of friendship as to request his own service as best man.

And what, then, of Hareton's own desires concerning young Catherine Linton? He had never voiced them – no, scarce even acknowledged them: for so much about her was ignorant of his way of life, and so much of her life was similarly closed to him; and what match could they be for one another, when they had so little in common?

And yet, and yet. If anything, Heathcliff had still less in common with the girl (who was besides his niece, by law and blood even if they shared no relation save at second hand): what greater right did the man have to her than did he?

And how could he ever voice such a thought, now that Heathcliff was claiming her for his own, and forever denying Hareton the chance…?

…

Father Watt was used to dealing with family feuds: as far as he was concerned, that was the entire reason a church had two separate sets of pews. He thought nothing of the look of rage that crossed Mr. Linton's face when he looked upon the new groom, though he understood the former's concern when he looked closely at the man's face. Skin darkened like some common farm worker, black eyes and hair: he might have taken such a man for a common gypsy, and refused him entry to the church, were it not for the cut of his clothes, and his obvious fortune.

And to look at the young bride, he supposed that fortune must be the sole reason for this union; it could scarcely be love that brought these two together, to judge from her sullen disposition. Of this, he could only approve: there was far too much misguided nonsense about love these days, in his opinion.

Society had rather got things backwards. _First_ came marriage: the binding arrangement between God and man as to whom the girl now belonged. Love, if indeed it came at all, was to be second, a state to be worked at _after_ the wedding. There would be a good deal less sin in the world, he was sure, if people would hold off on thoughts of love and romance until well after they were wed.

Still, he had to admit, he had never seen a more miserable assembly at a wedding: he recognised each and every attendee from the funeral he had most recently conducted, and he could not help but think some of them had seemed less sorrowful on that sad occasion than they did today.

…

Edgar Linton stood beside his daughter, his one remaining link in the world to his wife, the woman he had cherished and adored; and braced himself to give her away. He was determined he should not betray his grief: he would not give that monster the satisfaction of seeing it on his face. Where once he had wept and gasped before Heathcliff, with no result save cruel mockery from the man, bitter experience had toughened him to the point that his face betrayed only a grim stoicism. If his lips tightened as the ceremony continued on, he gave no other sign of his anguish.

His hands were held behind his back, though, where Heathcliff could not see them, and he permitted himself to clench them hard into fists each time the man opened his mouth to utter another vow, doubtless insincere, that bound young Cathy to him for as long as they both should live.

"If anyone here assembled, knows of any just reason why this man, and this woman, may not be joined together in holy matrimony…" the old priest droned on.

_Speak, someone! Say something! Let there be something! Oh, God, do not let this be so!_ Edgar silently raged. But no answer came to his prayer: Nellie stood silent beside him, one hand ready to support him should his fever beset him and he grow faint once again; Joseph had spoken not a word, save the obligatory 'Amen' where the sermon required it; the new maid at the Heights – Edgar did not know her name – was surely no candidate for his daughter's salvation, for she too remained all too quiet; and as for Hareton Earnshaw, who stood at Heathcliff's side…

"…speak now, or forever hold your peace." The priest paused, looked sideways at Heathcliff's dark features, and looked around at the assembly, apparently almost as keen as was Edgar that someone should prevent this marriage of a good English girl to some unknown vagrant.

But they were both disappointed. A full minute passed, and then another, and none spoke. Edgar would have done so, were it not for Heathcliff's threats, of which he had to constantly remind himself to keep from crying out his objections, and he bit his tongue painfully to keep from so doing.

"Then, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you man and wife," finished the priest uncertainly. Then, his voice even more doubtful, he added, "You may kiss the bride."

_No!_ Edgar's traitorous thoughts screamed again, and as Heathcliff bent his head to young Cathy, he could no longer keep his composure. Blinded by rage, he made to move forward: only a step or two and he would be in reach of the knave!

But Nellie came forward, faster than Edgar could move in his weakened state, and grabbed hold of him, making a pretence of giving him aid, as though his fever had indeed returned; though she held his arm in an iron grip. "That was, 'or forever hold yer peace,' the priest said, Edgar Linton: don't you go causing a scene now!" she hissed in his ear.

Helpless and impotent, Edgar Linton watched his daughter taken away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Note to readers: This chapter contains some sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.**

The journey to Wuthering Heights was made in silence: Mrs. Catherine Heathcliff (as all had now to call her) glowering at her new husband every few steps; Heathcliff himself in an easy mood, apparently without anything he felt needed saying.

Joseph and the new maid, Zillah, kept quiet upon Heathcliff's orders; whilst Hareton Earnshaw, though outwardly mute, had plenty to listen to, as half-formed thoughts screamed through his head, just as they had all day. He had hoped that when the wedding was over, and his hopes quite lost, his thoughts might tame themselves, but he was wrong: indeed they seemed to him louder and harsher, as though the gathering wind gave them greater voice, and the vast expanse of the moors accorded more freedom for them to run wild and angry.

* * *

The weight of her new nuptials pressed ever heavier upon the young bride, the burden of the duties she bore growing harder to bear with each step she took towards what would now be her home: this well-built prison of a house, with its small windows and thick walls that seemed, to her fearful mind, to have been designed with nothing in mind but her own capture and imprisonment.

What freedoms now? She had been kept from the world by her father, and yearned for freedom the more for it, but having had such a small, small taste of it, was she now to be trapped once more? Would the expanse of these moors be hers now that she was no longer under the control of her father, now that everything he had feared had come to pass? Or would she be kept in the house, under lock and key, with none of the liberties she had craved while living with her father, and only new nightmares to plague her in her new confinement?

* * *

Edgar's health worsened noticeably even as the carriage travelled back to Thrushcross Grange, as though some power that had spurred him to maintain his vigour had been suddenly lost, leaving him drained and spent. Perhaps it was his angry outburst in the church: Nellie privately wondered whether it had taken more out of the man than she could have expected; or if not, whether some sinister art were perhaps at work upon him.

But she dismissed such silliness as fit only for Joseph, not right-thinking women such as herself. Doubtless Edgar was simply taking a turn for the worse. He ought not to have made such a move at the wedding, and now, she supposed, he was paying the price for it.

* * *

Hareton's thoughts grew more hostile as they progressed. Perhaps it were just his fancy, but Heathcliff's face looked more relaxed, since leaving the church: the faint lines that had developed over the past week had vanished, and the look of continual effort he had noticed was now replaced by a calm that Hareton could only envy. Bitter feelings of jealousy and betrayal echoed in his head, and he fancied now that they took on voices: the gloating of Heathcliff; the sharp tongue of Catherine; half-understood recriminations in Joseph's harsh dialect, none of which made sense to him.

Amongst the cacophony, only his own voice was silent.

* * *

Dinner at Wuthering Heights was a sombre affair: Joseph's stentorian pronouncement of grace before they commenced were the only words spoken.

Catherine had hoped to talk to Hareton, to reassure him that she had not meant to reject him by turning aside his hand at the funeral, but his face was dark and unreadable, and she could not find words to speak.

Joseph was stoically silent: Catherine could only assume he felt words of prayer would quite suffice at the table. She hoped he may have found some room in his heart to pray for her; though she frankly doubted at there being any divine providence that might aid her, now that she had wed this man who sat at her left hand, and who now gazed upon her with a strange, disconcerting look in his eyes. It was quite the same look he had had the morning after his nightmare, when he had cried out her name, over and over, and yet not looked once upon Catherine herself.

She could not tell what emotion lay behind those eyes. It looked oddly like hunger, though that may have been something to do with lack of food rather than emotion, for he seemed paler and leaner than when she had seen him last; or it could have been a kind of longing, though in truth, that was an altogether less welcome thought.

* * *

Edgar refused dinner. He said he was not hungry, and wanted only to sleep.

Nellie ate alone, deep in thought.

* * *

It was as Zillah began to clear the plates that Heathcliff spoke, for the first time since leaving the church. His voice was gentle, but thick, as though his tongue were swollen from lack of use. "Come on, Cathy, it's time for bed. You'll be tired, no doubt, though I'm sure you shall find some vigour from somewhere."

And before Cathy could protest at having her own bedtime dictated to her, or complain about the early hour, he had taken her wrist in his hand and pulled her firmly from the table.

Hareton was left with Joseph and Zillah, the former reading zealously from his Bible, the latter busily scrubbing dishes with a dreadful clatter.

Heathcliff and Catherine's footsteps echoed from upstairs as they travelled across the hall, directly overhead; and when the echoes from the door slamming shut had died away, Hareton rose silently, and made for Hindley's old room.

* * *

Heathcliff's room seemed to Cathy to be fitted only for a batchelor: a single desk stood against the wall, and the bed was too narrow for a couple to comfortably lie together. Still, this did not seem to trouble Heathcliff, who all but pushed her through, closing the door as he followed.

The click of the latch sounded in her ears like the closing of the gates of Hell.

* * *

Hareton stumbled through the door of his father's old room half in a daze, looked about him for a moment, and headed to the writing-desk in the corner. Wrenching open the doors at its base, he saw just what he had expected: several bottles of various shapes and sizes, arranged across the bottom, just as Hindley had arranged them when he was alive.

Doubtless the old sot had considered it convenient to be able to sit at his desk when he drank, so as to have some support for his wretched head once he collapsed in a drunken stupor.

Hareton reached in, and chose a bottle at random.

* * *

Heathcliff was gazing at her again, the same glassy look in his eyes that had made her so uneasy before.

"Cathy…" he breathed.

"Yes?"

And then, with one quick stride, he was upon her, his lips pressed to hers, her breath taken away by the force of the violent kiss he bestowed upon her. His hands came to her face as she tried in vain to pull away, holding her still as he passed her lips and tasted her.

When he released her, she was panting for breath. He was smiling, staring past her eyes as though there were something in her soul that only he could see. She tried to meet his eyes as she regained her strength, but something in them left a cold feeling in her soul, and she was compelled to look away.

Perhaps he found such coyness pleasing, for he snatched her in his arms again, the kiss snatching away her breath once more, and he bore her towards the bed.

Her legs gave way as they collided with the bedstead, her body – weakened through lack of breath – failed to right itself, and her head spun as she fell back, with an audible thump, upon the mattress.

* * *

Hareton paused, his hand upon the cork of the whiskey bottle. Would he really turn to drink as a solace, as his hated father had? _No,_ he resolved, _I am not so weak as he was._ His hand reached out to replace the bottle. Perhaps he would take to his bed, and retreat into the comforts of sleep instead.

From the room next door came a gasp, a few heavy breaths, and the sound of a girl falling prone upon the bed.

Hareton snatched away the cork, and drank a quarter of the bottle in one.

* * *

The candle was lit: Cathy wished it were not. She did not want to see those black eyes, gleaming in the flickering light as they gazed hungrily upon her, just as a cat stares at an injured bird.

His shirt was open, and beneath the collar hung several medallions of silver on scarlet and black threads, shining like lesser moons, swaying as he moved. And he moved now, his lithe form pressing against her, his muscles twisting with feline grace, his manner that of a wild animal, his eyes still so empty, so cold…

She could not think, could not understand what she should do. Was this part of being a wife? Nellie had told her a few things – some of which had left her not a little shocked – but had never so much as hinted at such a violent display.

Should she fight, resist him? Should she lie still, and let whatever happened happen? Was she even safe? or might Heathcliff, blank-eyed and primal as he was, go so far as to take her very life? He had stolen her breath from her with his kisses, and that had been frightening enough, but now she feared the approach of his hand, could well imagine those strong fingers at her throat, choking her last gasp from her.

But he did not reach for her neck. Instead, one hand crept down to her petticoats, whilst the other stroked her side, caressing her hard enough that she could feel him even through her stays.

She had tied her petticoats at the front, and it was the work of a moment for Heathcliff to snatch apart the knot, then wrench away the front of them with a triumphant flourish. Her breath caught in her throat, as she found his intentions thus confirmed, and he pressed his mouth against her once more, as though her breathlessness enticed him to cruelly prevent her recovery.

* * *

The sounds from the room beyond the wall were too much for him. Hareton grabbed the bottle, now half-empty, took another from the desk, this time a bottle of brandy, and staggered out of the room.

He would rather drink in the kitchen, cold and bare though it was, than hear one more minute of that carrying-on.

* * *

Heathcliff tasted like nature at its most feral, like the air upon the moors. His hand had moved from her side to her breast, and the caress of his palm against her tender skin left her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

He broke his lips apart from her and whispered in her ear. "Cathy. My love…"

A shiver ran down her spine: she had never heard such a sound in his voice. It was a note of passion, some strange symphony of anger, lust and longing, and it rose a warm feeling in her chest even as it filled her with fearful anticipation.

His touch was surprisingly tender, she thought, for such a rough character. Whilst one hand explored the skin of her breast, the other stroked across her thigh, leaving a trail of gentle sensation as it travelled inexorably upward. His lips moved to her neck, his soft black hair cascading down across her shoulder, bringing with it the scents of wildflowers and of cold clear streams.

* * *

Joseph looked up from his Bible at Hareton's unsteady approach, words of reproach already on his tongue; but they were silenced before they could be said by the look on the boy's face.

Hareton sat down heavily next to the old man, looked about for a tankard or glass, and finding none within reach, merely sighed and picked up a bottle, then swigged it as though it were water.

Joseph slid a little further along the bench, away from the dedicated drinker, and returned to the solace of Isaiah.

* * *

Heathcliff's hand did not stop when it reached the top of her thigh. It proceeded onwards, and Cathy, compelled to action by fearful contemplation of his deeds to come, protested awkwardly.

"Heathcliff, I… No, not yet…"

She was silenced by his hand, which flew from her breast to her mouth, covering her lips tightly so as to deny her any further privilege of speech.

"Shh," came his voice in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "Don't speak, my love; no words now, this is what we've always waited for! Just feel this…"

And his fingers tightened across her lips with every sound she made, as his other hand, deft as only a Gypsy's could be, stroked and touched and enticed her, growing wet with her reluctant surrender to his seductive invasion.


End file.
